


Perception

by FallenSeraphs



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blindness (Anders), Child Tranquil, Chronic Pain (Fenris), Established Newlyweds, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenSeraphs/pseuds/FallenSeraphs
Summary: After being blinded by a templar, Anders adapts to his new life with his husband Fenris at his side. A fic for TheTyphonSerpent for the Fenders Wintersend Gift Exchange.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 64





	Perception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTyphonSerpent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTyphonSerpent/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not live with chronic pain and am not blind. I did some research, but it was not extensive due to time constraints, and I did not have anyone beta read this. If I have made errors, they are my own and I am deeply sorry. I tried to write their disabilities in good faith and if I have done something offensive, please kindly let me know.
> 
> I have walled off a small section of porn for people uninterested in that sort of thing. The section starts and ends with the following border line: *-*-*-*

At first there was a light like the sun. Not warm, but burning. A pure, piercing white.

Then there was black, the world falling away from the edges of his sight. Smoke in his irises. A burning in his corneas. A sound like hissing, popping ash. 

  
The heat of his own fireball betrayed him, reflected back from the silver mirror sheen of a templar’s shield. A templar with oily, gleaming copper curls and skin as white as bone. His triumphant laugh was as thick and rough as tree bark. 

It was the last thing Anders ever saw.

  
Then he was pushed to the ground, to safety. Fenris’— he knew they were Fenris’— arms around him. The roar of the fireball’s flame passed over them. The searing wave of heat gave way to a flush of cool.

  
There was darkness. There was quiet.

  
Then Hawke’s vengeful scream and the rallying cry of her companions had Anders scrambling against Fenris’ hold. 

  
“Stand down, mage. You were nearly just cinders.” The arms around him tightened. A breathlessness marked Fenris’ words, and Anders felt a tinge of guilt at making his husband worry.

  
He listened as the crack of Hawke’s Mind Blast knocked into the templar, his armor clanking as he stumbled back. The sound of Isabella’s daggers hitting shield met his ears, the snap of one of Varric’s arrows being knocked away with a sword. Then there was a splitting sound like cracking ice.

  
“We have him on the run.” Fenris said, moving off of him and pulling him up by the arm— before stopping abruptly. “Anders...” 

  
He imagined how he must have looked to Fenris then. His irises dull. His pupils unfocused.

  
He felt pointed gauntlets push the golden hair away, back from his face. “You’re… You can’t see....” Fenris whispered in a panic. Then louder, to the others, “Maker...! _He can’t see!_ ”

  
—

  
As soon as Lirene heard the news, she put out the lamp in front of the clinic, barred the doors and put up a sign: “We’re closed.”

  
Lirene then chased Hawke and her cacophony of worried companions away, as if sweeping a swarm of feral cats out with a broom, claiming that Anders needed _time alone_ and _quiet_ and _rest_ — things that neither Hawke, Isabela, or Varric were particularly good at giving— and they could come back later when their healer was more put together. 

  
Only Fenris, being his husband, was allowed to stay. 

  
Anders sat on a cot in one of the back rooms, slumped over his knees. He shot a disheveled grimace at where he thought Lirene might be standing. “There was no need to close the clinic, you know. I can still heal by using magic.” 

  
“She’s not there,” Fenris commented dryly. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ,” he hissed under his breath, “You _would_ be the only person in Thedas to still think of others even when having just _gone fucking blind_.” 

  
Anders turned his grimace over to Fenris. Again, as he had right after the fight, he brought his fingers to his eyes and pressed, dipping into the Fade. Again, something blocked his magic. Whatever move the templar had used to reflect his fireball back must have tainted it with the ability to dispel. 

  
Anders pulled back from the Fade. He took a deep breath. “So...” he began shakily, “I’m blind.” Even as he said the words, he still could not believe them. 

  
Then he said them again, dreadful certainty creeping into his voice, “...I’m blind.” 

  
He started to laugh. It was a breathless, defensive thing. He could almost feel Fenris’ knowing frown pressing against him.

  
“So what now?” Anders asked, his laughter dying on his lips, but a pathetic grin still stuck there. “I’m blind. Does that mean I get to be useless now, too?”

  
He felt a dip beside him on the cot as Fenris sat next to him. “Of course not.” 

  
A hand laced into his, lyrium-lined and adorned with the cool metal of a wedding band. There was a beat of silence. Anders could almost imagine Fenris cocking his head, deliberating what to say next. 

  
“It is not the same,” Fenris began, “but you know that I have dealt with pain ever since Danarius first etched these markings into me.” 

  
Fenris paused, considering his words more, before starting again. “At first, it was more than I could bear— I could hardly stand. But Danarius wanted a fighter— he would accept nothing less— and so a fighter I became. I managed with hot baths when Hadriana didn’t deny me and Danarius humored me with his magic when I had done particularly well. He amused himself with the thought that his ability to release me of pain tied me to him, like an addict to a drug dealer.” Fenris sneered.

  
There was another pause. This one seemed lighter, wistful. “And then I met you while I was on the run and barely holding myself together.” 

Fenris’ hand squeezed against his. “You could see that I was in pain, even at my most composed. You knew that I was averse to magic, so you offered a different solution with herbal tonics. You pushed me to rest when I over-extended myself. You stayed by my bedside and cared for me.”

Another beat of silence, warm. “Even with how I treated you at first, you still cared for me, my mage.” 

Fenris’ thumb rubbed back and forth over Anders’, repeating again and again, soothing. “My point is that you are stronger than you know, my love. You will adapt to being blind.” He pressed a soft kiss against Anders’ stubbled jaw. “And I will be here for you, as you have been here for me in the worst days of my own illness. Did I not vow as such on the day we wed?” 

Tears, hot and wet, sprung to the surface of Anders’ unseeing eyes, gathering on his eyelashes as he blinked. He nodded, then smiled a little. “Fenris... Had I known the last time I saw you... would be the last time... I would have stared _a lot_ longer.” 

Fenris chuckled, leaning his head against his shoulder.

—

The next morning, the running of water and the crackle of a fire roused Anders from his sleep. 

  
“Is that a bath I hear?” he asked.

  
“It is.” Fenris said.

  
At the next moment, Anders felt himself being pulled up to standing by the elbow. The clink of buckles being undone came next, a coolness hitting his skin the more he was exposed.

  
He attempted to wriggle out of Fenris’ grasp. His fingers patted at his chest, searching for a clasp to undo. “I can undress myself, thank you very much. I am not a child.”

  
“Stubborn mage,” Fenris hissed softly, and Anders found himself pulled into his arms. A feather-light kiss brushed against his temple. “There will be time enough for that. For now, allow me to take care of you.” He felt a nuzzle at his neck, pleading. “Allow me to repay you for all the times you have taken care of me.”

  
Anders finally relaxed. With a sigh, he nodded, consenting to being stripped. Soon Fenris was leading him over the lip of the tub, lowering him slowly inside. A moment more, and Fenris’ familiar weight slid naked beside him.

  
He could hear the lathering of soap, a sound he would never have noticed before. He was discovering that blindness was not like in books— his other senses did not overcompensate for his lack of sight— it was more that he was _paying attention_ to things now that had always existed. Things like the shift of water as Fenris moved, their steady breathing— loud in the silence, the silk froth of the soap as Fenris ran it over his arms and chest.

  
Slowly, Fenris worked the soap on his skin, massaging the tension from muscles between his shoulders until they were lax under his fingertips. It disturbed Anders a little how good Fenris was at it— well-practiced— and he decided adamantly he did not want to know why. Instead, he relaxed back into his husband’s touch, letting his head loll against the crook of Fenris’ neck.

  
Fenris’ hands roamed, slow but deliberate, down from his shoulders to his arms, down from his chest to his stomach, down from his hips to his toes, until every part of him was clean. Anders heard the lather of soap again, then felt fingertips rub his scalp in circles that made him want to moan in contentment.

  
“You are too good to me,” he murmured to Fenris. 

  
“It is only what you deserve,” Fenris answered.

  
Anders moved his hands to grab where he thought the soap might be, trying to return the favor, but Fenris pulled it away as soon as his fingertips brushed it.

  
“This is for you, my mage,” Fenris said gently. “Sometimes you must allow things to be just for you.”

  
After they rinsed off and dried, Fenris helped him dress and then sat him down on a stool. 

  
Fingers combed affectionately through Anders’ hair, followed by the gentle swish of the bristles of his hairbrush. The feeling danced on his scalp— it nearly hummed, electric. Then Fenris parted his hair, tying it up into its usual half ponytail.

  
“You are beautiful, my mage,” Fenris breathed, and it was something Anders never tired of hearing. 

  
Anders smiled, and it was just then he realized how much he had _needed_ a bit of care. The events of the past day had left him shaken, and he found he was allowed to feel that way. The need to lean on Fenris now and then, to ask for help, was not a weakness.

  
Anders’ hand searched out for Fenris, finding the back of his lyrium-lined wrist. He took the wrist, turning the pulse to his lips, and kissed it.

  
“Thank you.”

—

Lirene and Fenris had both strongly advised that Anders readjust to his space fully before opening the clinic again, but seeing how restless and unhappy he grew in his bed doing nothing and helping no one, they finally relented.

  
Though Anders had practiced navigating the clinic with Fenris while it was empty, there was no small amount of chaos as he kept bumping into cots and tables, patients and stools, though his patients were thankfully understanding. Most even chimed in to let him know when he was getting too close or about to run into an edge. 

  
Creating three-dimensional space in his mind was much harder than when he was a child in the Circle, playing at blindness with a strip of black fabric tied around his eyes. It made him wonder why children diverted themselves with such games, and if-- had he known this would happen-- he should have practiced a bit more.

  
Lirene handled the boiling water for disinfecting bandages and washcloths, handing them off when their temperature was no longer scalding. Fire and pointed objects were things that were forbidden to him for now, a fact that frustrated him as much as his bruised shins hurt. He was unused to depending on others for such simple things, unused to being so clumsy and unkempt. 

  
The one thing that came naturally to him was his cupboard of herbs. 

  
It surprised him that there was no need to drain himself of magic to heal, no need to run through his stock of Lyrium as if it were water in a desert. The countless times he’d rummaged the cupboard had burned the memory of it into his body. As he picked out each herb, he could feel the bell-shaped petals of Crystal Grace, the lobed leaves of Spindleweed, the long, winding roots of Amrita Vein— and knew he had picked the correct one. 

  
As for Fenris, he set a more watchful eye than usual over the clinic. Rumors began to travel of a ‘mage’s wolf’ guarding the perimeter of its territory, ready with glinting silver —claws to gouge out the organs of anyone who dare threaten it. Anders did not like the new alias for his husband— he found it dehumanizing and reeking of Danarius’ old pet names— but Fenris paid no mind to it and guarded him the same. 

  
It was on a night that was more quiet than usual, with the few patients Anders had had that day long lost in their dreams, when the silence was shattered by doors of the clinic bursting open, a man holding a little boy no more than ten in his arms. 

  
—

  
“Please, healer. _Please_ tell me that you can do _something._ ” The man’s voice was as cracked as fractured glass. “My boy! _My boy!_ ” His rapid, irregular breathing made Anders certain he was on the brink of weeping. 

  
Anders quickly fumbled his way to an empty cot and sat down on the stool in front of it. “Lay him down here.” 

  
The man’s steps clattered on the wooden floor as he rushed near. There was the shift of warm bodies, and finally, the creak of the cot as the weight of the boy was laid down, his head brushing against the pillow. 

  
“What exactly is wrong with him?” Anders asked, his hand already on the boy’s smooth face. He checked for the flare of small nostrils and a steady breath. His fingers moved to the pulse in his neck. The boy’s heartbeat was regular, oddly calm. 

  
“Can’t you _see_ what’s wrong with him, healer?” the father asked in hysterics.

  
“No,” Anders replied, almost numbly, “I can’t.” 

  
There was a pause for the man to recognize his blindness. Then father broke down, a shrill cry muffled by something— it was hard for Anders to tell what. It was either covered by the man’s hands or he had turned away into his shoulder. 

  
“What exactly is wrong?” Anders repeated patiently.

  
But the man was too unintelligible to talk to Anders anymore, to tell him even a word in answer. 

  
“Father do not cry,” the boy spoke among the wailing. His speech was placid and toneless, his words as stilted as slabs of concrete. “It was likely wrong of me to stay out so late. I knew you would feel anger over it.” 

  
Horror dawned on Anders. It settled like an Ice Mine in his stomach. No wonder his father had asked him if he could see.

  
He imagined if he could, he would find a golden sunburst burnt into the center of the boy’s forehead.

  
“It was really my fault for playing in the streets past curfew,” the boy told Anders plainly. “That was why the templars came.” 

  
It confirmed what he already knew. Thoughts of Karl rose up in his mind, unbidden, as they always did when a fellow mage was rendered Tranquil. Thoughts of friends, no longer here— of mercy killings and private funerals performed in secret, dirty hovels. Thoughts of countless sleepy but dreamless eyes that stared at nothing. Smiles without any joy.

  
This was only just _a boy_. Even if it was a mercy, he could not, _would not_ kill a boy. 

  
“What did these templars look like?” he asked.

  
“Everything happened so fast,” the boy said. “But the one with the brand— he had curly red hair. It looked unwashed. He had pale skin and dark eyes.” 

  
It matched the description of the templar who had blinded him. 

  
Anders’ hand found the boy’s hair and stroked it as if to calm him, but he knew there was nothing there to calm. Perhaps he ran through the motions of comfort because he needed to calm himself. Angry tears had sprung from his eyes without his noticing— but now he felt them, hot and wet, rolling down his chin. 

  
He finally turned his head to where the father should be. “I’m afraid I cannot heal him,” he said, as if there were a granite rock stuck in his throat. He had had this conversation with many a Tranquil patient’s desperate family before— but never once over _a child_. 

  
Anders heard the father’s shuddering intake of air, could nearly feel his uncontrolled shaking. “Maker, no,” the man sobbed hoarsely. “What am I to do?!”

  
How could Anders tell him that his son was worse than dead? That losing one’s connection to the Fade was like losing all the vibrant colors in a rainbow, like losing the song in the whistling wind? That he himself would rather go blind again a thousand times over than to ever endure Tranquility? He couldn’t.

  
“Love him,” Anders said instead. “It is the only thing you _can_ do.” 

  
The cot creaked again, some of the weight lifting off of it. Anders could nearly picture the man now, holding the child he had raised and protected from the Circle since birth in his arms. His cries were muffled, again, by something— most likely his young boy’s body, Tranquil and still. 

  
“I will get justice for you both.” Anders said. He wiped the tears from his own face with trembling hands. 

  
Justice, as if hearing his name called, crackled to life within him. He could feel the heat of the spirit’s cerulean glow. It emanated from his flesh in lightning-shaped fissures. 

  
_“I swear it.”_

  
—

  
Later that night, Anders sat at his writing desk. He was fully awake, his body buzzing wildly as if an electric conduit, as if there were insects crawling just beneath his skin. Justice still hummed at the back of his mind, barely suppressed only for now. His fingers fumbled over sheets of parchment and the desk’s cabinets, the seat of his chair and the surface of the floor, not knowing where he had misplaced his quill or when exactly he had lost it. 

  
“Mage, come to bed,” Fenris said from the other room. 

  
“I can’t. I have important matters to attend to,” he shouted back. His arm was elbow-deep in a drawer when the knuckles of his hand hit upon something thin and feathery. Ah. _There_ it was. 

  
The sound of soft, padding steps told him that Fenris had entered the room. “Well, isn’t this a familiar sight,” his husband groaned. A heaviness entered his voice, as if he were in mid-yawn. “What do you believe yourself to be doing at this late hour?”

  
“Fighting for the plight of mages,” Anders said soberly. “What else do I do in such late hours?” He swept his quill left and right over the face of the desk, searching for his glass inkwell. “I still remember feeling the shapes of letters. It can’t be that hard to learn to write again.”

  
“Mage, you are ridiculous,” Fenris said softly.

  
“Am I?” Anders’ cutting tone held no humor. Justice bristled. “Today a father came in with a child that had been made Tranquil, Fenris. _A child_. Tell me, what crime did this young boy commit to deserve that?” 

  
Silence. 

  
Blindness did not grant Anders more magic than he already had, but he swore the fraught air stood between them like a tangible wall, magnetic and unpleasant. It reminded him of when he had first met Fenris, of the bitter poison on his tongue as he talked to Anders about his experiences with mages, the hate that burned in him brighter than a torch’s flame. He braced to hear a dagger in Fenris’ words.

  
“Mage,” Fenris began carefully, “You are ridiculous because you do not think to ask for help.” 

  
“And _you_ would help me?” Anders hissed. At once, his hand knocked into the open inkwell and it spilled. The liquid seeped past his fingers in a small flood, drenching the parchment underneath his hand. “ _Andraste’s ass!_ ”

  
Another silence. 

  
Slowly, the amble of bare feet on the wooden floor moved towards him. The heat of Fenris’ body pressed behind him, his upper torso leaning over his shoulder. Fenris gently put the inkwell back in place with a clink and pulled the parchment from his writing hand. 

  
“Yes,” Fenris said. “I _would_ help you.”   
  
Justice finally stood down. Anders’ mouth slackened slightly— he sat stunned in his chair. “But I thought... even after all this time... you still carried a little-”

  
“-I did not marry a mage only to hate all he is,” Fenris said, his tone stern. “You were the first to show me what a mage could be. Hawke the second.” He could almost hear Fenris’ frown. “In all my travels with you both, in all I have witnessed until now, did you think I had not learned that Southern mages were quite different from those in Tevinter?” 

  
Anders looked downward, away from where he could nearly imagine his husband’s gaze. His clean hand sought out Fenris, to touch him, to feel any sense of forgiving tenderness from him. “So much time, and I still misjudged you,” he whispered.

  
Fenris clasped his hand in his, kissed his fingertips. “It is behind us, love. As long as you do not make the same mistake again.” 

  
“Never again,” Anders promised. He leaned against Fenris’ arm, then allowed himself to be pulled into his strong, solid embrace. Fenris’ nose brushed against him from behind, the ends of his bangs tickling Anders’ neck. 

  
“I _will_ help you, mage.” Fenris said. “Hawke has been having me read advanced books now. Books about theology, philosophy, the sciences...” Anders could feel a smirk of pride at the nape of his neck. “I know how much finishing your manifesto means to you. You could dictate your words to me.”

  
“Fenris...” Anders opened his mouth to say more, but the words he needed were lost to him. 

  
“But first, you must come to bed.” Fenris leaned forward and kissed the bottom of his parted lips. “If you are to fight for all magekind, you must first build your strength with a good night’s rest.” 

  
Anders chuckled. He felt the edges of his own eyes smile. 

  
Then he paused and tilted his head, pensive. “Speaking of fighting...”

  
“You wish to learn how to fight again,” Fenris said, more a statement than a question. 

  
“Yes,” Anders said. The mirth at the corners of his eyes faded. “That boy... The same templar who robbed him of magic robbed me of my sight.” His lips pressed together. “Justice will not abide by it. And blindness be damned, neither will I.” 

  
Fenris hummed in thought. “We should work on getting you around the clinic without incident first,” he teased, pressing another kiss to his lips, “but I will ask Hawke to aid us when it comes time.” 

  
“All right,” Anders said, unable to hide a little frustration.

  
“You must learn to walk before you run, love.” Fenris pulled his arms away and yawned. Anders could picture him stretching, the feline extension of his limbs and bow of his back. “Now let us remove the ink from your hand and go to bed.” 

  
—

  
A week passed. Hawke borrowed Fenris to go on a shopping trip to Hightown. When they returned, Anders caught the odd sound of the shifting of parchment paper, the weight of something light but oddly shaped in Fenris’ arms.

  
“We have a present for you, Anders,” Hawke said, her voice gentle as ever, a flowing stream.

  
Fenris transferred the package over to Anders’ arms and he took it. His fingers brushed over a satin ribbon. “What’s the occasion?”

  
“There’s not... really an occasion,” Hawke said. In her hesitance, he could imagine her biting her bottom lip. Her staff scraped against the ground as she shifted the weight on her feet. “We only thought that it might help.” 

  
“Oh, so my blindness is the occasion, then!” Anders quipped with a grin.

  
Only Fenris chuckled. It was cut short by the sound of something hitting his stomach, hard. Most likely Marian’s fist. 

  
Fenris coughed. “Oh, come now, Hawke. Let him have some levity in his illness.” He seemed to straighten, the patting of his hands against himself loud and dignified. “You know that is the way Anders just is.” 

  
“Yes, but to joke about,” Marian paused, “So soon...” 

  
Anders sighed a little, but smiled. “I am going to live like this for the rest of my life, Marian. There is no use dancing around it like it never happened, no use in avoiding the word ‘blind’ as if it were some filthy slur.” 

  
“I... I see...” Hawke said. “I apologize.”

  
“You may _see_ , but I can’t.” Anders grinned.

  
Upon hearing Fenris’ tortured groan, Hawke finally began to laugh. It was a sound like chimes in the summer wind. It was a sound that always brought an easy, familial warmth to Anders’ chest. His grin gave way to a genuine smile. 

  
“Now about this present,” Anders said, already tearing at the parchment.

  
Fenris chuckled. “Ever the eager mage.”

  
“I am the picture of patience,” Anders agreed.

  
As the parchment wrapping fell away, his fingers brushed up against the sleekness of something wooden and long underneath, not quite the height of a full staff. As he stood and held the object in his hand, he noted it only came up to his sternum. His hand slipped easily into grooves carved to fit his fingers, a comfortable, secure grip. 

  
He could feel a connection to the Fade pulsing through the wood, a light vibration that seeped into his palm and hummed through his arm. He gripped the wood harder and felt a sturdiness meant for close-quarters fighting, a wood that would not easily shatter.

  
Anders stood there, too speechless to even comment on the gift. A walking cane made out of wood _this_ strong and _this_ light cost more than a pretty gold coin. For one to also be able to channel his magic... 

  
“How much did this cost?” he finally asked.

  
“It is rude to ask the price of a gift,” Fenris said, but with a smirk in his tone. “Hawke and I had some savings pooled together, never mind you how much. Just know that you were worth every coin and more.” 

  
“Agreed,” Hawke said, and she would not be argued with.

  
Anders gave an exaggerated slump of his shoulders, sighing in mock defeat. 

  
“Here.” Hawke walked up beside him, gently putting her hands on his. “Let me show you how it works.” She swept the cane in his hand to the side, demonstrating, “When your right leg is out, your cane goes to your left. When your left leg is out, your cane goes to your right.” 

  
He began to walk around the clinic as she directed, Hawke moving with him. Her presence at his side was a comfort, and he quickly found a rhythm with the cane, his movements becoming easier, more familiar. 

  
Marion slowly let go, as if he were a toddler just learning how to walk. Without her sighted guidance, a seed of fear sprouted in him, blossoming the further he left her warmth, her voice, behind. He hit the leg of a cot in the clinic, and though it startled him, the sound and the vibrations through the wood told him much about what he had hit. 

  
He laughed, a nervous shake. “Better the cane than my shins again.” 

  
Anders walked with more confidence after, the cane becoming its own kind of comfort— it was a new way to evaluate his space, an extension of his senses.

  
“It’s white, so it’s noticeable to others,” Hawke said, and he could feel her eyes watching him, her small sliver of a smile, “And it’s got a hook at the end, so it won’t snag on grass.”

  
“Good for adventuring, then.” Anders smiled.

  
“Yes,” Hawke said brightly. Then she cleared her throat, becoming solemn once again. “It’s a promise— that with good practice and time, you will be adventuring with us all again one day.” 

  
At that, something caught at the back of Anders’ throat. “Hawke...” He swallowed. “Fenris, love...” He made his way to them, opening his arms out to them both. “I... I don’t know what to say.”

They each closed in, embracing him tightly. He could feel Fenris’ grin against his throat.

  
“A simple ‘thank you’ should suffice,” Fenris said. 

  
“Thank you,” he said, resting his chin on both of their heads. “Thank you.” 

  
—

  
Weeks passed. Long days, largely without incident.

In the nights, however, Anders still dreamed.

He had a feeling that his dreams were not going to go away easily, that whatever space of the Fade they existed in did not dry up and disappear simply due to the loss of sight. 

And in his dreams, his sight came back to him just as easily as his lungs took breath. 

In his dreams, memories visited him. 

He saw Merrill walking down the aisle at their wedding, tossing sun-yellow daisies from a white lattice basket. Each daisy landed among the laps and hair of their small group of guests, Dog failing miserably to catch the flowers in his big sloppy jaws. 

He saw Hawke at his side, her pale arm entwined around his as she led him down— her bright, kind smile and twinkling blue eyes. 

He saw Isabela, blushing from already having dipped in the champagne, whistling and cheering at him from the seats. She would not sit still, her chair rocking with the motions of her body, a chaotic back and forth, as she waved in her too-short red dress. 

He saw Aveline, flushing for different reasons, trying to quiet her. Dominic shifted awkwardly beside them. Carver, just across the way, pretended not to know any of them— though he did smile slightly as a daisy landed on his shoulder. 

He saw Varric laughing at the unfolding spectacle. He was holding a small silk cushion— two rings tied to its center with a simple ribbon. The rings were plain, but within them held all the golden promise a future together could bring.

He saw Fenris. _Maker_ — in all this beautiful disaster— he saw Fenris. 

A traditional double-breasted suit of wine red contrasted wonderfully with his golden-green eyes, brought out the small flush that had risen in his pointed ears. His shock of white hair had been slicked back, exposing the three dots of lyrium on his forehead, accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones. He looked royal. Handsome. Dignified. 

  
Instead of roses or anything trite, Fenris held a bouquet of Crystal Grace in his arms, beautiful as well as medicinal— a perfect fit for his healer. As he turned to face Anders, to hand the bouquet of bell-shaped flowers over, there was a barely perceptible widening of his eyes, and then a soft narrowing of them, a fondness usually saved for intimate moments. A true smile.

A quiet finally settled over the crowd. 

And then Anders woke up. 

He blinked into the darkness.

He felt tears— of both happiness and grief— hanging in his lashes. 

The memories, like his dreams, stained his subconscious with vivid inks of color, too stubborn to be washed away. They were as much a part of him as the rhythm of his beating heart. As much a part of him as his magic. 

No templar could take this from him— it was _his_.

—

Fenris had been called by Hawke to Sundermount for three weeks now.

  
Anders had been doing well enough in the clinic. He had learned by now the placement of each cot, each cupboard, each seat and every table. As long as no one moved anything, he could navigate the area without much difficulty. The cane that Hawke and Fenris gave him kept him from running into any patients and the bright white color let everyone know to steer clear.

  
He was now picking out herbs with lightning speed and could make his tonics without any trouble. He could use knives to slice and chop his ingredients so long as he was very careful about knowing where the blade was. The only thing he still called on Lirene for assistance with was the boiling of water to disinfect.

  
Still, a wound in him was aching, a piece of himself missing, buried among the snow on the mountains wherever his love tread.

  
—

When his husband finally arrived home, it was nearly dawn. Anders knew it was him by the sound of his bare feet, by the cadence of his stride against the clinic floor. He looked to the sound of double doors swinging shut behind Fenris and his heartbeat caught in his throat. 

The next thing he knew, his arms were full of elf, his lips engulfed in a rough kiss as Fenris stood on the balls of his feet to reach him, hands fisting in the collar of Anders’ jacket, pulling him down to meet him.

Anders’ lips parted easily for his love— his mouth sweet and pleading and trembling against the raw starvation in Fenris’ kiss— unable to contain their joy. His fingers clenched against the strong, lithe muscles underneath them, and he felt the heat and friction build between their caressing bodies like a match sparking to life. 

Fenris finally broke the kiss for air, his lips returning to nip and tug on the shell of his ear. “Let us go to bed,” he breathed, and the low, sinful way he said it meant that they would find little sleep.

“You still want me?” Anders had meant it to come off as a joke, but it betrayed a part of him— small but persistent— that worried that something had changed now that he needed help so often, that he had worn his husband down.

Fenris very pointedly did not answer, instead picking him up in his powerful arms and ferrying him to the clinic’s back room.

*-*-*-*

There were things he would forever miss about lovemaking— the sight of Fenris’ undulating toned stomach, his bronze thighs tightening with each thrust inside of him. The fullness of Fenris’ open mouth as he panted, his green eyes lust-hazed and feral with hunger. The way his lyrium lines lit up electric blue with need.

But Anders found that he was trading these sights for his attention to other things— the sounds of the cot giving way underneath him, the rhythmic slap of his husband claiming him. The delicious stretch of his body opening to join with Fenris, the feel of every inch and lyrium vein of his hefty cock. 

He discovered anew the searing heat between their kisses, the hiss of stolen breaths in the air, the vibration of moans in their throats and the pounding race of their hearts in tandem. 

“Love,” Anders gasped, their hands threading together, wedding rings knocking against each other. Anders wound his long legs around Fenris’ waist and pulled him closer, ever closer.

“My Anders,” Fenris growled against his ear.

He felt the small of Fenris’ back shift as his hips changed their angle, his whole world becoming rigid flesh and slick heat and Fenris bucking against the sensitive bud of nerves inside of him. His head pressed back into the pillow, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his face, and he felt the sink of blunt teeth into his shoulder.

He felt Fenris come first, buried deep, a wave of heat spilling into him. His own orgasm overtook him at the flood, all the tension that had been winding in his lower stomach snapping like an elastic band pulled too taut. His inner walls convulsed, at first fiercely, and then in weak, sated spasms. A tremble ran up and down the length of his spine as he panted for air.

And then Fenris collapsed against him, pulling him tightly into his arms.

*-*-*-*

“Fool mage,” Fenris said, catching his breath as they laid there, wrapped in each other. He pressed a sleep-heavy kiss against Anders’ temple. “I will always want you.”

—

Fenris had overexerted himself in the past weeks, and the next morning dawned on one of his ‘bad days.’ Days where his lyrium lines burned in his flesh like a brand and sapped away at his energy. Days where no number of warm baths or herbal tonics could provide relief for his pain, where he could not lift himself from the bed. Days where even the simplest of tasks invited more punishment from his body.

Anders stayed at his side, his hands carding through Fenris’ hair and petting his back with the buzz of healing magic, again and again, trying to soothe away what he could. 

Fenris leaned weakly into his touch. “I promised you I would teach you to fight,” he said guiltily. There was a slur in his usually velvet speech, and Anders could imagine his bleary eyes, puffed with shadow. 

“You will, but not today,” Anders said, his voice soft. “Hawke said that she would help.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Fenris’ head. “I will take her up on that offer for now, and you will join us later, I promise.”

Fenris sighed, but relented. He hadn’t the energy to fight. Instead he pressed himself against Anders more. “Until Hawke arrives, will you stay?”

Anders shifted, laying back down on the bed facing Fenris. He sighed as the familiar circle of his husband’s arms embraced him, the silk of hair brushing underneath his chin, eyelashes fluttering against the Adam’s apple of his throat.

Anders smiled, soft and wide. “When you ask so sweetly, how could I say ‘no’?”

—

Hawke met Anders in the cellar passage connecting Hightown to his clinic. It was familiar territory to Anders and spacious, the kegs of wine having long been excavated for coin. Here they would not be interrupted by templars or bandits, would not accidentally hit a passerby with a stray bolt of lightning or the wayward wind of a blizzard. 

“Let’s start with something simple,” Hawke said, and her staff whistled as she flipped it in the air like an acrobat, hand smacking against the wood as she caught it. “What are you going to do if someone comes too close?”

“Mind Blast,” Anders answered. 

Marian gave no warning, leaping into the air and striking downward. 

Anders whipped out two fingers and brought them to his forehead, the Fade exploding outward in a barrier that blew Marian back. A dragging hiss resounded against the dirt floor, suggesting she had landed on her feet with feline grace. Her staff dug into the ground with a crunch. 

“You should act before you lose sight of where I am,” she said, catching her breath. 

“‘Lose _sight?_ ’” Anders grinned. Still, he took her advice, bringing his arms together, pulsing static from his cane sharpening into volts of electricity. 

More scrapes against the dirt floor— Marian dodged each bolt, propelling herself in the air with gusts of wind. 

He listened for that wind, felt out its direction. 

He pooled up the Fade where he heard the falling of dust, felt it form into a sphere of raging lightning—

—but Hawke wasn’t there. The sphere enclosed against nothing but empty air, the thundering buzz masking any sound of Marian’s movements. 

A staff knocked into him from behind. 

“You almost had me,” Marian said, and there was a grin in her voice, “but ‘almost’ isn’t accurate enough. You’re now dead. Let’s try again.” 

—

  
Weeks passed. Every day, Anders carved out at least an hour for his training, and every day his ability to sense and listen grew more precise. Hawke began to incorporate offensive magic in their practice, and he relied on his connection to the Fade to tell which direction the magic came from. He soon knew the prickle of electricity, the burn of fire, the ice of wind— long before they could graze him. 

  
Fenris joined their training when he finally felt decent, adding a different dynamic to their exercises. More than once, the use of Silence frustrated Anders, forcing him to use other means to track than his magic, sending him dizzily into a physical and metaphorical darkness without his contact with the Fade. He did not fault his love for using such methods against him— a templar would have less mercy. 

  
Finally, Varric added an archer to their mix— a harder challenge than Anders could ever imagine. The whistle of arrows blew by too fast for him to put a stop to, their trajectory unknowable by the Fade, impossible to block with a simple barrier. He attuned his ears to the catch of Bianca loading, but it was hard to discern among the blur of other sounds in the fray of fighting.

  
When Anders was ready, Hawke took him on one of Aveline’s patrols of the Wounded Coast. The sets of bandits were sparse there, and if things looked dour, Aveline could quickly call her guards for reinforcements. 

  
Fenris came with them, having long decided his place at his husband’s side— now even more than before. The two of them had always worked in tandem— a synchronized dance— and now Fenris was not only Anders’ sword and shield, but his sharp, watchful eyes, warning him of oncoming attacks and calling out the enemy’s position. 

  
The Kirkwall crew learned quickly to use audio cues to aid their healer. The burst of Isabella’s smoke bombs left their enemies unable to see, but made Anders instantly aware of where to spring a paralyzing cage of arcane magic. The word ‘healer’ was shouted when one of them was injured, and Anders appeared with a river of warmth and mending. 

  
Slowly, their adventures expanded beyond the broken ships and abandoned campsites of the Coast to the frozen mountains of Sundermount, to the towering walls of Hightown at night. 

  
Always, they were on the lookout for fiery coils of red hair, a silver shield emblazoned with a blue sword, aspen-white skin. 

  
Little did they know that the templar would come _to them_. 

  
—

  
It happened, again, in the still of the night.

  
The twin doors of the clinic burst open, and then there was silence.

  
There was a drop of a body to the floor. Hard and hollow. The sound of knees, then the slap of hands. 

  
Anders rushed over, neared the fallen form. The pulse was steady, the breathing too regular.

  
Another Tranquil.

  
The doors slammed shut, then opened again, and again. The clatter of armor filled the space of the clinic, circling him. 

  
There was a laugh, rough and black as tar. _His_ laughter. 

  
“Who knew tying up this loose end would lead to such a treasure trove, boys?” the templar said, breaking from the circle to walk towards Anders.

  
Anders did not need to see to remember the glint in the templar’s dark eyes. A few more steps forward and a hand grabbed at his stubbled chin, fingers pressing dents into his cheeks.

  
“A mage healing in Darktown? Just how long did you think you could keep such activities a secret from us?” 

  
“Is it a sin now to heal the sick and destitute?” Anders asked with a defiant grin. He could feel the crackle of Justice at his temples, even as his position at the center of a ring of templars left him with little agency. 

  
“Do not pretend as if I have not seen what you are capable of, ‘healer.’ The Maker has left me to judge, and I will leave no magic unchecked in His stead.” The hand on his chin pushed into his hair and yanked at his ponytail. “Now, I will quiet that insolent tongue.”

  
At once, Anders felt the press of bodies around him, the heat of a brand inches from his forehead, the song of lyrium in his ears...

  
The Fade exploded around Anders in a tidal wave that only Justice could provide, sweeping the circle of templars off of their feet and pulling them to the center of his magnetic vortex by their armor. Chaos came in bursts of bodies knocking against each other in the pull of his gravity, sword arms swinging uselessly, slow and spinning out of control.

  
It gave his patients the time they needed to escape. One of the sick rushed just outside the doors and found the horn Hawke used to summon her companions— he blew with all the air his weakened lungs could offer. In the chaos, Anders yanked himself away from the templar’s grasp, scrambling backwards—

  
—And bumping into the arms of another templar. 

  
A frantic heartbeat later and the templar was hunched over his head, viscous liquid and the rank scent of blood pouring over his back. The squelch of an organ being crushed in familiar pointed gauntlets rang in his ears, and his body trembled in numb relief.

  
“Fenris.” 

  
Lyrium sang again, a sweeter tune, as his love cleaved through the nearby templars with his sword as if through parchment. 

  
Anders crawled backward until he hit a wall, gathered his wits, and listened. The wall prevented ambush, while Fenris doubled back to stand guard at his front.

  
“Anders!” Hawke whipped past the clinic doors, an ice blizzard rushing past her feet. The whiz of Bianca’s arrows followed after, the shatter of frozen armor and falling of bodies in their wake. 

  
“How many are left?” Anders called.

  
“Four,” Fenris answered. “Three are coming toward us, still dazed from the vortex. Northwest.” 

  
Anders clutched his cane, power thrumming through the wood in heavy pulses. He gathered it all, formed it into a sphere of Fade and then struck out, a wide bolt of lightning splitting the air in two, and then three, before hitting the group of targets. 

  
Sparks spat. Convulsions thudded against the floor. Anders knew that he had won.

  
And then he heard that laugh again. 

  
Fenris cleared from Anders’ path, but hovered behind his shoulder on standby. Hawke’s Blizzard settled into a gentle wind. Varric loaded Bianca, but did not fire.

  
They knew the templar belonged to Anders. 

  
Again, Anders gathered power from the Fade, the prickle of it on his fingertips. This time, instead of electricity, he gathered simmering heat.

  
“Fire?” The templar chuckled. “You would make the same mistake again?” 

  
“Not quite,” Anders said, stepping forward. _“Immolate.”_

  
Flames shot up from underneath the templar’s feet. His shrill screams pierced the walls. The smell of burnt fiber and metal melding into flesh filled the air. Then the hiss of crumbling ash dusted the clinic floor.

  
All was quiet once again. 

  
—

  
Varric and Hawke took up the task of emptying the clinic of templar corpses, leaving no trail for others of their kind to follow. Lirene gathered Anders’ patients back inside, aiding them in Anders’ stead, shooing the healer off. Merrill came in soon after to cure where herbs simply could not, using the methods Anders had begun to teach her for when he was away. 

  
Finally, Fenris took Anders by the hand and led him through the familiar passageway to their mansion. There, they tumbled into bed, their limbs heavy with exhaustion, intertwining lazily together.

  
“So, it’s over,” Anders said. He had tucked his head just under Fenris’ chin, enjoying the benefits of feeling safe and secure as the ‘little’ spoon. 

  
“Mm,” Fenris hummed, pulling him closer. “Or... has it just begun? Bards will sing ballads of the blind mage who terrorized any templar who dared abuse their power.” 

  
“As they will sing of the handsome elf warrior who stood at his side,” Anders added, amused. His sightless eyes squinted with affection. He tilted his head upwards, planted a kiss on the apple of Fenris’ neck. “What will become of the two, I wonder?”

  
“According to Varric, they loved each other fiercely until the end of their days.” Fenris brushed his fingers gently through Anders’ hair.

  
“A happy ending, then.” Anders smiled. 

  
“A happily ever after,” Fenris amended.

  
And the two slept soundly, knowing that they were strong enough to adapt to their future— whatever obstacle or change it might bring— but also knowing that they were not alone. There was at least one thing, one force between them, that would always stay the same.


End file.
